“Sorry,” Conley said when she arrived on the Kellys’ doorstep at noon. She gestured down at Opie, who was already straining at the leash to go inside the house. “When you invited me, I neglected to say I had a plus-one.”
“It’s fine,” Skelly said. He leaned down to scratch Opie’s ears, and the terrier immediately rolled onto his back to allow for a thorough belly scratch. “Mom loves dogs. She misses Buford something awful.”
“Awww. Buford. What a good boy he was,” Conley said, smiling at the memory of the Kelly family’s golden retriever. The dog had been their constant companion in their childhood. “But he’s been gone a long time, Skelly.”
“I know. But Mama doesn’t,” he said. “C’mon in. Lunch is ready. Nothing fancy.”
Conley followed Skelly down the hall and into the dining room. Miss June was seated at the head of the mahogany table, which was covered by a grand damask tablecloth. Three places were set with fine bone china, crystal, and slightly tarnished sterling silverware. A cut glass bowl in the center of the table was filled with a riot of colorful zinnias, cosmos, and sunflowers, and pink tapers burned in the silver candelabras.
“How pretty you look today!” Conley exclaimed as she leaned down to kiss Miss June’s cheek.
The older woman wore a bright blue housedress with snaps up the front and had tucked a sprig of pale blue plumbago behind one ear.
“You look nice too, Sarah,” Miss June said diplomatically.
“Whoops! I’m sorry to show up at your beautiful table dressed like what G’mama would call a ragamuffin, but I didn’t know I was going to be the recipient of such a lovely lunch invitation,” Conley said.
“And who is this?” Miss June cried, spotting Opie, who was busily sniffing her ankles.
“This is G’mama’s dog, Opie,” Conley said. She scooped the dog into her arms and held him out to the older woman, who beamed, letting the dog lick her chin and face.
“That’s enough now, Opie,” Conley said, trying to sound stern. “I’m going to put him in the backyard for now, or he’ll be pestering us for food all during lunch.”
“Oh no, let him stay,” Miss June protested. “He can sit on the floor right here by me. And he’ll be a good boy, won’t you? What did you say his name was, Sarah dear?”
“Opie,” Conley said. She touched the rim of one of the dinner plates. “This is so elegant. Much too elegant for the likes of me.”
“Seanny did all this. Just for me,” her hostess said happily. “I do like things to look nice, especially on Sundays.”
“It’s beautiful, Seanny,” Conley said teasingly.
“Do not call me that,” he said under his breath. “She’s been so excited about having company for lunch. Do those flowers look familiar?”
She turned and scrutinized the centerpiece. “Are those…?”
“I figured your grandmother wouldn’t miss a few flowers from her garden, now that she’s out at the beach. She usually sends Winnie down with a bunch every week.”
“I know she’d love knowing your mother is enjoying them,” Conley said, following him into the kitchen. “Now what can I do to help? Did I mention I’m starving?”
“You can help me carry in the salad. Everything’s ready. Nothing fancy over here at Chez Kelly. Just a green salad and spaghetti and meatballs.”
He went to the stove and lifted the lid of a huge saucepan, and the smell of oregano, garlic, and tomatoes filled the kitchen.
“Smells divine,” she said, picking up the plates he’d already filled with tossed salad.
An hour later, she was washing dishes in the kitchen while Miss June sat in a chair in the living room, petting Opie and feeding him treats.
“Where’d you learn to make red sauce like that?” she asked her host, who was filling plastic quart containers with the leftover spaghetti.
“I had a friend in pharmacy school. He was from a big Italian family in New Jersey. We’d have these communal study groups on Sunday nights, and he’d always bring what he called his nonna’s Sunday gravy.”
“If you ever get tired of running a pharmacy, you could probably open a restaurant with a recipe like that,” she said.
“Not a chance,” Skelly said, putting the last container in the refrigerator. “I don’t get a chance to cook that often, but when I do, it’s strictly for relaxation. I make this spaghetti all the time. It’s one of Mom’s favorites, and it’s easy for her aides to warm up for lunch and dinner. She’s fine with eating the same thing every day, because she never remembers she had it the day before and the day before that.”
“She seems pretty alert and happy today,” Conley said. She hesitated. “I was going to ask—do you think she’d be up for a Sunday drive out in the country?”
“You mentioned that in your text. I know you, Sarah Conley Hawkins. What’s up? It’s got something to do with Symmes Robinette, right?”
“Guilty,” Conley said. “I’ve been poking around, looking at Robinette’s most recent campaign finance statements. In addition to the house on Sugar Key, I found the address for what I think must be Oak Springs Farm. Looks like a pretty rural part of Bronson County.”
“Why is this important to your story?”
“I looked up the property on the Bronson County tax assessor’s website, and I couldn’t believe what I found. Symmes deeded the farmhouse and eight hundred acres of land back to Toddie.”
“So?”
“He did it a week before he died, Skelly. He just handed his ex-wife, whom he divorced thirty-four years ago, a gift worth two million.”
“What do you hope to accomplish by driving out to that farm?”
“It’s a beautiful day for a drive in the country,” Conley said, trying to look and sound innocent. “Fresh air, beautiful scenery. Your mom can sit in the back seat and hug Opie, and I’ll even let you drive!”
“And you can sit up front with me and try to figure out something nefarious about the death of a politician,” he said, shaking his head.
“Exactly!”
“Where are we going?” Miss June asked, looking out the window from the back seat of the Subaru.
“Remember, Mama? We’re going for a Sunday drive,” Skelly said.
“Wonderful!” It was the third time she’d asked the question since they’d left the neighborhood, and they’d barely cleared the Silver Bay city limits.
“I saw a photo on the county website of the farmhouse Symmes deeded back to Toddie,” she told Skelly. “It’s two stories, with big, wide porches. Looks like something out of a magazine spread. Quite a difference from the photo I saw of the house she got in the divorce settlement.”
“How so?” he asked.
“I think she must have been living in the caretaker’s cottage or something. Not a shack or anything. The property card said it was fifteen hundred square feet. But it was modest compared to the big house. The reason I’m so puzzled is, why give her that big house—and all that land—now? They’ve been divorced all this time.”
“Maybe Robinette was feeling guilty. Seems to me that he got the gold mine and she got the shaft when they split up in the eighties.”
“Maybe,” Conley said, sounding dubious. “I looked up his finance records from his last campaign. He was rolling in the dough. He had six million in cash and stocks, plus the Sugar Key house, plus a town house in Georgetown. And that land and house he gave to Toddie.”
“I had no idea being a congressman was so lucrative,” Skelly said. “I’m in the wrong racket, owning a little country pharmacy.”
“Robinette might or might not have been feeling guilty, but he was definitely feeling generous in this last month or so,” Conley said. “He also ‘sold’ his old house—the one that’s right around the corner from yours and G’mama’s—to his son, Charlie, also for a dollar. The house was assessed at over half a million dollars.”
“I know Charlie’s been living in that house since Symmes and Vanessa moved out to the beach at Sugar Key,” Skelly said. “I guess the old man decided he might as well give it to his kid.”
“And again, the question I have is, why now?”
Skelly looked out the window at the passing scenery. “Maybe … he was feeling his own mortality.”
“Or maybe he knew he had some kind of terminal illness and wanted to assuage his own guilt,” Conley said.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Conley, who’d been watching his expression, pounced. “You do know something. You’re the only pharmacy in town. If Symmes Robinette was sick, you’d know what it was. How bad it was.”
“HIPAA,” Skelly said. “I can’t have this conversation with you, Conley. It’s a violation of my professional ethics.”
“Sorry,” she said, chastened. “The last thing G’mama said before she left to go to church with Grayson this morning was that she didn’t want to get any more phone calls complaining about her pushy granddaughter.”
Skelly had typed the address for Oak Springs in the GPS of his phone, and they were about fifteen miles outside the Silver Bay city limits when he suddenly slowed the Subaru and pulled off the side of the road.
He pointed to a spot on the pavement just a few yards ahead. It hadn’t rained, and the asphalt was still coated with oily black soot, the shoulder littered with glittering pieces of red plastic from the shattered taillights.
“Does this look familiar?” he asked.
Conley’s mouth went dry, and her stomach knotted as she remembered the night of the wreck and the glowing orange of the car fire. “I came past here the other day, but everything looks so different in the light of day.” She gazed out the window and saw the roof of a small house protruding above the tree line. “I didn’t notice that house before. Wonder who lives there? I wonder if those people saw or heard anything that night?” she mused.
“Good question for the cops,” Skelly said, steering the car back onto the road and resuming normal speed.
“The map says we’re getting close,” he announced a few minutes later. They passed a small billboard proclaiming WELCOME TO BRONSON COUNTY—THIS IS QUAIL COUNTRY.
They heard a soft noise from the back seat. Conley turned to see that Miss June was napping, with Opie sprawled on his back across her lap, also asleep.
“You see that?” she asked.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled. “I think maybe you should bring Opie by to see her more often.”
Five minutes later, they saw a long row of white-painted fencing. “Okay, that’s Riverdale Farm. If I remember correctly, that’s the first one of the big plantations along this road. There are smaller ones scattered around the county, but half a dozen of the biggest ones are right along here.”
“It’s pretty,” Conley said, admiring the rows of neat fencing, the stately, moss-draped oaks, and pristine pastures dotted with cattle, horses, and the occasional mule.
“You’ve never been out here?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Don’t think so. My dad didn’t hunt at all. And Pops was more into deer hunting than quail. He said quail hunting was like horse breeding. A rich man’s game.”
“He was right about that,” Skelly muttered. “Not many of these places are owned by locals anymore. A lot of these plantations belong to big-money tycoons. They fly in on their private jets during dove or quail season with their billionaire friends, knock down some quail, sip some bourbon, then jet back up north.”
“It’s a nice lifestyle,” she said.
They were passing another plantation now. “I haven’t been out here in ages,” Skelly said, “but now that I see the landscape, I do remember coming out to Oak Springs with my parents when I was a little kid.”
They passed two more plantations, Buie’s Creek and River’s Edge. Eventually, he pulled over at another impressive entranceway. A pair of tall brick columns held a pair of elaborately scrolled wrought iron gates. A discreet sign on one of the pillars announced OAK SPRINGS FARM, EST. 1902.
“Wow,” Conley said, letting out a low whistle.
Skelly backed the Subaru up a little, then began to pull away.
“What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed. “Stop!”
He stopped the car and gestured at the gate. “You said you wanted to see it. You’ve seen it. We had a nice ride out in the country on a beautiful Sunday. Mama got to hold a dog and take a nap. I call that a win-win.”
“I thought we’d go see the house,” Conley said. “You know, maybe let your mom have a little visit with her old friend.”
“I’m not up for trespassing,” Skelly said. “Not even for you.”
“It wouldn’t really be trespassing,” Conley pleaded. “We could just drive down to the house, maybe knock on the door, pay our respects. I mean, Toddie was your mom’s best friend.”
“Toddie?” They both turned to see that Miss June was awake. “What is this place?” she asked plaintively. She craned her neck to see out the window, and before they knew it, she opened the door, climbed out of the back seat, and walked, with surprising speed, toward the gate.
“Mama?” Skelly called.
His mother pointed at the sign, her face animated. “I know this place,” she said. “This is Toddie’s farm.” She gave the iron gate a push, and the hinges squealed in protest.
“Shit,” Skelly said, flashing Conley an annoyed look. He got out of the car and approached his mother.
Miss June used her shoulder and pushed the gate open a few more feet. “Toddie lives here,” she told her son.
“Now, Mama,” he started to say, but just then, Opie gave a short yelp of excitement, jumping out of the car and trotting over to join his new friend.
“Opie,” Conley called, following behind. “C’mere, boy! Come here!”
The terrier paused and gave her a backward glance, followed by an enthusiastic wag of his somewhat stubby tail.
“Good boy, Opie,” she called encouragingly, creeping slowly toward him. “C’mere, Ope.”
He wagged his tail furiously. Then the little Jack Russell scampered past Miss June and her son, down the driveway as fast as his brown-and-white-spotted legs could go—which was surprisingly fast for an elderly dog whose usual speed was tortoise-like.
“Opie!” Conley yelled. “Come back!”
Skelly took his mother by the arm and guided her into the back seat of the Subaru while Conley clambered into the seat beside him.
“You did that on purpose,” he said, starting the car and rolling through the now open gate.
She knew better than to protest.